First Light 2021

Published by Shippensburg University through The Writers’ Lighthouse at Ship. Neil Connelly, Editor

Cover produced with original art by Kuma Kum posted on www.unsplash.com.

Copyrighted 2021 by Shippensburg University. All rights revert to authors upon publication.

Spectrum Award for High Artistic Achievement

“No Big Deal, Really” by Madeleine Hendell

“The Connoisseur’s Memory” by Dalila Melkumova

“A Beautiful Shade of Denial” by Anna Kardos

“A Walk in the City” by Sophia Verrechia

“Brother” by Maria Rahmouni

Honorable Mention

“Searching for the Non-Existent” by Shannon Ziegler

“What These Ashes are Made of” by Lucy Cooper-Silvis

“Secrets” by Emily Thomas

“Home Problems” by Brooke Mitchell

Dedicated with gratitude to the teachers who worked with and encouraged the writers published in this volume:

Michele Poacelli, Mercersburg Academy

Brenda DeLellis-Johnson, Camp Hill High School

Brandy Detwiler, Central York High School

Josh Yeckley, Bishop McDevitt High School

Lynne Reeder, West Perry High School

John Kurzawa, Shippensburg High School

Glory Sterling, Greencastle-Antrim High School

Michelle Abbadessa, Whitehall High School

Sarah Lawrence, York Suburban High School

Angela Kamps, Cedar Cliff High School

Sandra Van Etten, Red Land High School

Thomas Nelson, Trinity High School

Maria Thiaw, Capitol Area School of the Arts

Mary-Catherine Miller, Greenwood High School

Kirsten Harteis, Classical Conversations of Franklin County

Amanda Turner, Gettysburg High School

Trish Bolster, Trinity High School

Cassi Ney, Dover High School

Benjamin Hodge, Central York High School

Editor’s Acknowledgements

Several pieces included here received recognition previous to their publication in First Light.

“Survive” received a Scholastic Art & Writing Awards Honorable Mention.

“Speak” won a Scholastic Art & Writing Award Gold Key.

“The Connoisseur’s Memory” won a Scholastic Art & Writing Award Gold Key and was be include in Mercerburg Academy’s Blue Review.

“Scarlet Fingers” won a Scholastic Art & Writing Award Silver Key.

“Sentimentality” received a Scholastic Art & Writing Awards Honorable Mention.

“Brother” won a Scholastic Art & Writing Award Silver Key.

Editor’s Preface

As this edition of First Light is being typeset, the world is being vaccinated. More and more maskless faces are appearing at the grocery story. In my suburban neighborhood, the sounds of summer gatherings can be heard when I’m out walking my dog, and other pedestrians aren’t circling around me quite so widely or if they are, it’s because my seven pound terror is yapping at them. Even she though is becoming accustomed to more and more encounters. In general, there is an easing of things, an embrace of the potential we collectively feel in the light of the day.

Simultaneously, Facebook and the media seem obsessed with the seventeen year cicadas. Like the pandemic population, these insects have emerged from a buried and protected world, and they worry the air now with their buzzing activity, aloft and in flight.

All of this puts me in mind of the voices I encountered in these pages. There is something powerful and mature in these works, yes, but also something incipient. These writers are shrugging off the cloak of anonymity, stepping forward, declaring themselves part of the grand conversation. They bear witnees to the world as they see it and boldly speak their truths. Our task is to listen and perceive more clearly.

Normal

Emilyn Bedell

They all pray for the day when we go back, Yearning to start over, Yet I am trapped between both worlds. How can I go back to normal?

While they pray Endless changes, unanswered questions: What would I be like if it never happened? Is there something wrong with me? Why would I want to go back to normal?

Should I pray?

Reality is a distant island and I am just a boat trying to stay afloat. Everyone wants something from me but I cannot give it Wanting to reach out for help but I don’t and wonder why This is not the best version of myself. Words mean nothing anymore. Trapped in my own numbness, I can’t go back to normal.

The Connoisseur’s Memory

Dalila Melkumova

I. Dzhomba

I take a sip and forget everything.

In my memory, my auntie trails to the bazaar under the hot sun of Central Asia, cutting the heavy air with the sharp clinks of her golden bracelets. The bazaar smells like thyme, pepper, and sweat, and the sun-wrinkled passers-by look at me with confusion: I am a blue-eyed girl, a white blur that sticks out between colorful Azerbaijan fabrics. In the family photos with my tan cousins, my paper-white skin looks almost like a camera defect. In cold Moscow, I was brought up in traditions of Tatars and Azerbaijanies; still, wherever I went, disapproving glances haunted me.

Dzhomba, the classic Central Asian milk tea, is always made with salt. In the past, tasting the salt crystals at the tip of my tongue would make me salty as well: “I hate being Tatar. I hate living in this country being Tatar. I hate being mistaken for a Russian on the streets when I am not one. I just wish I was not pale. I wish I was a real Tatar, Mom. Am I?” But she never replied with anything.

Like that, my dzhomba would become saltier with the musty taste of my tears.

Opening the little orange tea bag, breathing in the half-native smell I felt almost like I belonged to my culture. My grandma, her eyes Tatar-brown and hair Tatar-white, drank dzhomba in buckets, and I childishly supposed I would become Tatar drinking it, too. We sat down at the table, traditional Tatar sweets hidden in a small bowl with an old Russian ornament, and took hot sips. And then, there was nutmeg.

The tingles on the tongue were distinct; I always tasted pepper in my neighbor’s tea, cardamom in my aunt’s. It was all the same drink, but somehow every cup was different. I liked it this way much more than I liked it bland - it is almost like the spice made the tea recognizable in the ocean of different drinks. It came to my mind that I, too, was my own person in the sea of faces. I was a different, but not “foreign”, Tatar; the people who did not believe it simply liked their tea bland. It was only important that I knew who I was, and looking at my reflection in the teacup I suddenly realized I did.

Then, dzhomba became pride

II. Jasmine

I take a sip and forget everything.

In front of my eyes, teal willows reach for the vast blue river, drowning in the buzz of cicadas. Subtle jasmine aroma slowly fills the air, and I climb up the hill to see the statue of an old deity. The passers-by look at me with curiosity: I am a redhead in a remote Chinese province, wiggling my way through pastel sun umbrellas.

During my exchange, I threw myself into everything: I memorized all the wu-shu dances, practiced calligraphy till midnight, and gave Chinese preschoolers piggyback rides as we headed to the shop for green tea ice cream, a bouquet of summer-scented flowers, and a bucket of scabrous peaches. It was worth my teacher’s annoyed glance for the times we got soaked in the rain.

When I drink Chinese jasmine tea, its bittersweet aftertaste lingers on my tongue long after I finish the cup, just like my memories. The Chinese tea ceremony is a very time-consuming science, but I love the details they beckon to me. As I lift the lid by its teal porcelain knob and silently pour the tea into gaiwans, I myself become poured with the memories of my teal days, and the typically non-fruity jasmine tea becomes rich with peaches and summer fruit. I will never know the meaning of every single tradition of that country, but, still, I can’t help but want to learn more every day.

Then, jasmine tea became curiosity.

III. Southern-sweet

I take a sip and remember everything.

Breathing in the fall air, I laugh and exchange smiles with a passer-by: I am a new student in the United States. My southern-style tea is almost all sugar, but I keep on drinking its overpowering sweetness is similar to that of a welcoming smile.

Then, even as I am still drinking it, sweetened tea is becoming courage to start anew.

I сonsider myself a tea enthusiast, maybe even a connoisseur. My creations can take me to any moment in the past, but never to the future. Furthermore, taking a sip of the tea that would show me my future ahead of time is not something I would ever consider doing contrary to the popular belief, the best thing about tea is the aroma and never the taste. Just like I inhale a new tea scent, I get a foretaste of my ever-changing future with every fresh cup, but anticipation is impossible without a little mystery. As for now, I will take the teapot and fill it with some new tea to brew into a memory, just to refill it over, and over, and over again.

Sentimentality

Savannah Reisinger

The scent of my childhood lingers, wrapping around yet another first day of school, chalk dust and possibility, smeared graphite and erased mistakes.

The feel of dust-covered fabric between my fingers. Crossed-legged in the attic, pulling out old jerseys that used to fall below my knees, when goals meant grass in my cleats and balls in the net.

The sound of brass rings hitting glass, age six with my father by my side, carnival lights and winning throws and love that turned into a lavender monkey prize.

The taste of salty tears on my tongue, hiding under worn blankets that hugged my side when “family” couldn’t quite grasp tight enough, when fabric frayed and I unraveled.

The sight of abc’s turning into quadratic functions. Dreams becoming too small and tearing at the seams. Gambles for stuffing turning to gambles of sentiment and character. Blankets crumpled and thrown into boxes labeled “Donations.”

Age fifteen, sitting alone in my room, dark circles painting my under-eyes to match the shade of the walls. Trying to knit together old scraps with loose threads not worthy of a knot.

A Beautiful Shade of Denial

Anna Kardos

She holds the book in her hands as though the pages are sheets of pure gold, bound together by velvet thread, bejeweled with a cover of amethyst and sapphire. Her eyes gradually consume every word, like a faucet dripping into an open sink, down the drain, into her mind glazed white with wonder. Occasionally, her brow will twitch, her pensive grimace will seize into a small smile, she will glace up to absorb the freshly read sentence into the sewage of her mind, quickly glancing back down into the yellow-stained pages to watch it drip all over again.

Maps of wrinkles crease into her once supple skin, shifting with each new concept read, each new emotion felt, each new revelation - subtle, like the plates moving in the earth below. Carmine found her grandmother beautiful. A stunning woman of age, pouring over her pages of gold, like a tall oak towering over a deep thicket. Much like an oak, her grandmother's gaze bore haven to a hundred small critters of thought, crawling insects of sin, and silent memories. Her arms rested limply, as branches holding that of swallow's nests and tender embraces, blowing in the wind, rustling with the written word. Her matted, unwashed hair was a magnificent mess of moss, holding as much of her age as the dated sundresses she wore like sunshine on her hide. Her skin is lighter than bark, though; it was pale hickory with twisting vines and veins of blue and patches of irritated pink, spotted in moles and carved with scars a brilliant oak. Her leaves were most beautiful of all, which in reality were the butterflies that rested on her shoulders. How comforting to see that each butterfly was still white, just like Carmine's. It promised many more evenings like these, watching words drip over pages of gold.

The smell of rotting sawdust and herbal teas welcomed Carmine to another Wednesday spent at her grandmother's apartment. Her grandmother was an artistic woman of strange taste, Carmine always observed when rushing past the apartment's decor. The loft walls were coated with realistic portraits of faces forgotten, taken from the back ends of garage sales and flea markets, sold for about $4.50, only to be planted on the apartment walls of an aging woman who never took the care to look at them. Only one thing stood in common with each portrait, at least one of the butterflies grazing their backs, over their Victorian garbs and powdered wigs, were black. Inky splotches, hastily brushed on by the unknown artists, crippling within the shadows compared to the delicate white butterflies so proudly bore in the forefront of every picture. The fear in each painting's face always gave away that a black butterfly there though, and in their presence, they often became centerfold.

The portraits' wide eyes followed Carmine as she slinked through the kitchen overflowing with dishes, past the hallways weighing with shoes and coats not worn in years, into the living room where thousands of paintings, both purchased and

handmade by grandmother herself, sat like guests. Like always, here her grandmother waited, sitting upon her plastic divan of wheels. Carmine hated that the portraits, the dishes, the coats, and the occasional art supplies were the only company her grandmother had; maybe that's why she visited every Wednesday, making sure that the massive clutters of horror and imagination didn't devour her in her sleep.

"Have a cup of cammy, Carmie." The woman voiced a hoarse laugh as she offered a cup of chamomile tea.

"Thank you, Nana." She helped herself to the warm brew, swirling with fresh herbs and old spices. The pearly butterflies on her back fluttered and she cozied into the satin armchair; indeed, they liked being with her grandmother as well. Who wouldn't?

Nana’s pale face folded into a warm smile, the rising sun illuminating her features with bleeding shades of lavender and periwinkle, pouring over her glazed mind like honey over toast. Her frame was weak, a skeleton mapped in a loose layer of goose skin, seeming to hold onto her muscles and organs like a thief holds loose coins in a burlap sack. You could see the coins under her grandmother's skin, protruding and rough lumps of fat, waiting for the sack to rip and give way to the thief's crime. The sack, jingling with jewelry adorned over its neck and coins under its skin, shook as it turned to the nearby mahogany bookshelf. A straining hand grabbed two copies of a simple poetry book - worn indigo pages gathered by an unknown author - amethyst and sapphire.

Carmine tried to see the unattractive book as her grandmother does; she craved the childlike glow held in the oak tree's loving gaze. Unfortunately, Carmine only saw vulnerable leather, bound in a fraying thread, possessing sheets of pure nonsense. She never actually reads the books Nana gives her; she just watches. Watches the ants of Brooklyn writhe under the magnifying glass of responsibility outside the window - where the world is a curious little boy who likes watching people burn. She watches the dust settle over the floor, the birds that dare hesitate a moment to peer into the ugly apartment, and the leaves that drift in through the open pane. She watches how it all changes with the seasons. Fall is her favorite. The ants of people fade into colorful coats and begin dawning Christmas bells, the dust is softer, and the birds become less frequent. Best of all, the leaves that gather on the loft floor become more repulsive and frequent - giving her the perfect last moments to pick them off the floor and be with Nana for just those few more minutes. It is lovely. Lovely like decaying piles of amethyst and sapphire.

Hours passed. You practically hear the drips of words drop into her grandmother's empty head drip, drip, drip. Or maybe that was just the sink, broken after so little use. The sun held itself above the noon sky like a crown, shimmering beams of ochroid into the September wind; the air carried the golden promise of an ending summer. Carmine glanced to her Nana, who was creasing and shifting with her little book's torn pages. She couldn’t decide if each passing week brought more joy or fear to her grandmother's presence. Was Carmine not more eager to leave as the month's pass? Had she not begun to dread the once-beloved

Wednesdays? Was she not afraid to watch her Nana die? No. Nana was nowhere near death; it could be proven with a simple glimpse. If her grandmother was genuinely dying, her butterflies would be-

Panic spiked back up the familiar taste of chamomile tea, smothering her mouth in the sour bile. A stone, heavy as a burlap sack of coins, plummeted into her stomach. Her shoulders were tense as she shook upwards from her chair, skulking over to her grandmother.

"Carmie, what's wrong?" Nana’s eyes, still translucent with droplets of wonder, peered up and stabbed into Carmine's soul.

"Nothing Nana, keep reading - it's a lovely book." She lied.

"Oh, it really is!" Nana chirped as she curled back into the hideous booklet. However, something even more hideous than the poetry, more repulsive than the autumn leaves, and more fearful than the eyes of the peeping portraits - sat on Nana's shoulder. A butterfly, black as squid ink. A disgusting splotch that deserved no place on her grandmother's spine. It wasn't meant to be there; it was a mistake. It was a fictitious omen, a false god, a lying prophet, a maggot that had somehow sprung wings just to impersonate one of her grandmother's most precious ivory butterflies. A frantic shock took over Carmine as she searched for a way to cover, conceal, or kill the butterfly. However, Carmine knew these butterflies could never be destroyed - they must be removed by different means.

It was a fictitious omen, a false god, a lying prophet, a maggot that had somehow sprung wings

Quietly, she reached over to her grandmother's art supplies and searched frantically for anything white. Anything blessed with the actual color of what that butterfly should be. Under the paintbrushes and wood chips lay, like an angel in the hectic underworld, a gorgeous tube of bright pearly paint. Smothering the paste over her finger, she silently smeared the pigment over the sickening charcoal wings. It twitched and fluttered as she pinched its wings together with dense color, causing the other butterflies scattered on her Nana's backbone to squirm away. Carmine's smile grew as she stepped back to admire her work; the ugly insect was perfectly coated in the cotton hue; from a distance, you would never guess the python that lay under the dove wings of white chroma. Carmine let an uncanny calm wash over her, choosing to only see what was really there - beautiful white butterflies, as she reclined back into the armchair.

"Nana, wake up. It's only noon. Don't you want to keep reading?"

"Oh, thank you, dear. I almost slept the day away, didn't I? I suppose I just feel a bit tired today."

The next Wednesday crept through the cracks in the crumbling drywall and seepd through the stained cream carpet like the slowly chilling air. As Carmine rushed through her Nana's apartment complex and frantically shoved her key into the door's tight lock, she could almost feel the weight of importance shift with the click of the latch. Click. Allowing her into the slimy bubble of decay, where her

grandmother sat like a safe refuge at its center. Nana was the perfect, ruby shell to the rotting apple that held as a firm lump on her throat. Where the portraits bore expressions of fear just seven days before, now their deep eyes and strained smiles taunted her. Their antique gaze giggled with the creaking floorboards, shoving their gross medals of the black hell in her face. They mocked her tense stance with equally tight poses as she ran through the halls of unwashed dishes, unworn coats, and unused art supplies.

There, sat in front of the living room window, as always, was Nana, sitting upon her plastic divan of wheels. The tall oak was wilted into a quiet slumber once again - the creatures that once swarmed her full gaze hibernated in the autumn wind, her arms bore no swallows nests, her mossy hair coated a thick layer her pale bark, and no daylight yet graced her sundress. It almost felt wrong for Carmine to place her beautiful, young hand on the aging woman, as though she was sucking the youth from her veiny arms with each breath.

"Grandma, it's Wednesday. I'm here for tea and poetry." She squeaked, her voice much more hesitant than she remembered it being.

"Oh, dear!" Nana rustled awake, "I-I forgot to make tea this morning, please forgive me." She shook, rattling her jewelry and burlap skin.

"No apologies, Nana. Would you like me to make some?" Carmine peered back into the kitchen, which she had never used before. How would she even make the tea when there was no apparent kettle or clean cups?

"You could go in and find everything you need in the first pantry, but I don't want any. I’m not thirsty. Thank you, Carmie." She croaked, grasping over for her poetry book, a limp branch sagging in the late harvest wind.

Carmine returned moments later with two cups of chamomile tea; indeed, Nana would drink it later when she was more awake. As unfamiliar anxiety held her to the armchair, pulling her into the soft pillows. Carmine took her watching to the cluttered stage that was her grandmother's loft. Facing them, of course, was the gigantic window that engulfed the heavy streets of Brooklyn, crawling with ants who now bore the sporadic colorful coat, squirming under the footsteps of the morning rush hour. The pane was covered with candles of every scent and flowers of every bloom. Guilty neighbors and old friends had delivered them to her, giving a beautiful view of their favorite place - the products of which grew each week. The walls were a light red floral wallpaper and overlaid with shelves. Each housing paints and pastels, empty frames, and blank canvases, though some bore the likeness of familiar, granted unfinished, scenery. The sun rose with shades of looming tangerine and azure this morning, highlighting the creases in Nana's porous skin. Illuminating a particular butterfly covered in white gunk, unable to fly.

The teacup sat cold in her hands now, the chamomile untouched and the steam long since fogging her vision. Still, she could make out three more black rogues lain like wolf claws over her grandmother's feeble back. They gripped her, the faint white of their once present beauty oozing away as rain to a gutter soft tendrils of creamy smoke lifting from the ash of their revolting flutter. What awful impersonators, so clearly out of place on the parchment of Nana's elegant build. Like

spiders drawing sticky webs on rich silks, the butterflies were so obviously on the wrong woman. A hag should bear such auguries; a tax collector should be a victim to their malicious predictions. No tall oak, dwelling over golden poetry in a deep thicket, should even be near those devils of midnight.

With the smooth motion of a dancer perfecting her choreography, Carmine leaped to the tube of white paint, just where she had left it on the mantle last week. She squeezed at the tube until her fingers were covered in its simplicity. No hesitation was brought as she gripped at the squirming butterflies, ripping at their winds as she painted them in pearl. The job was much sloppier than the last, but it was still perfect - as it brought Nana back to as she had been weeks ago - young, enclosed in a halo of white.

Still, Carmine's stomach twisted with dissatisfaction; her mind spun as she tried to push any image of a black butterfly from her mind. To her, they never even existed. There had to be no evidence they ever had. In a short moment, her nervous gate leads her back to the hallway, white still in hand. She stared at the portraits, heart pounding with unfelt fear, hands shaking under the weight of the power held in that small tube of ivory. She could hear it again. The giggles of the paintings, mocking her, spitting into her eyes the truth she didn't want to see.

"Please, shut up!" She gargled, hidden tears now streaming from her face, bile biting into her lips. Her hand flew as she covered every black butterfly on every painting. The portraits posed, wide-eyed and speechless as Carmine roared, taking her fingerprints over the unknown artists' splotches. The paint was smeared and messy, not so much butterflies as thick mountains growing from the canvas. No more ink-black wings greeted you at the door, only the disgusting presence of ethereal white. Just as it should. That afternoon, Carmine let her grandmother sleep over her copy of indigo rubbish, for she held snow colored gold in her pocket - gold that could pay any debt of doubt in her mind.

Anxiety raced through the subsequent Wednesday. Carmine found herself awake at midnight, dreading the date, dreaming of squid ink in her once beautiful nightmares. Adrenaline drove her to Nana's apartment at 1:00am; her feet moved faster than her thoughts, pounding against the complex's ugly carpet. Her hands were even quicker, though, pouring white over her empty grasp, ready to once again battle the demons that tore into her Nana's soul each moment. Click. Drip, drip, drip. The night was still alive, the darkness seized her, the sloppy work of a panicked exorcist stood pale tumors on her grandmother's once beautiful art. Chamomile smoke and fall dirt soaked the air, covering the walls in a mist of panic, making the dishes, coats, and art supplies invisible in the fog.

All that could be seen was the light of her darling Nana, decaying upon her plastic divan of wheels, not a page of gold nor a cover of amethyst insight. The large pile of fall leaves, rotting and wet, piled at Nana's feet, sticking to her legs and creating a deformation over the once delicate candles and flowers. White forms hobbled on her back, fighting to flutter, trapped in the armor of thick paste that had been applied just a week ago. But these white butterflies were not like her own - not

as beautiful as Carmine had remembered them being; it was just as disgusting, just as vile, just as sickening as the other butterflies that now swarmed her grandmother's shoulders - charcoal black.

A scream forced itself from her shut jaw as she was grasped over to the aged woman. She was heaving. Hyperventilating. Sobbing through a film of sweat and tears while she shoved her hands onto her Nana's back. White paint smeared over her sunshine dress, over her mossy hair, tangling the roots from which the demons had crawled from limbo. She pinned each butterfly in the mess of color until every inch of her grandmother's shoulder blades were covered in heavenly, butterfly white. Another wail erupted from her throat, dry with bile and sharp with soreness. There was no paint left, but Nana was still not waking up. The ants of Brooklyn were quiet; no colorful coats could be seen, no Christmas bells heard. No rainbow sunrises burst from the horizon. Instead, a vile fang of a moon hung in the warm sun's place. Where a daylight king once stood in the sky, assuring autumn evenings spent with tea and poetry - a new leader stood, a wicked queen who wore a crown of crescent moon thorns and sent black butterflies from the pits of deadly transgression.

"Carmie, what is going on?" Carmine flew to her grandmother's wrinkled face, cupping the skull beneath her goose skin, pressing white paint onto her cheeks.

"Nana, what is happening? Are you alright?" She heaved, her words nearly gibberish under her cry.

A long pause hung in the moonlight as the drenched insects slowly rose from her grandmother's spine.

"Oh dear, don't you just look so much like your Papa," Nana whispered. Rage and foul confusion warmed the tears in Carmine's eyes and launched daggers through her heart.

"Grandpa is dead, Nana!" She yelled, "His butterflies turned black years ago; he is irrelevant! He does not matter; he is not worth speaking of! He is gone, and so is any thought of him!"

"Then Carmine," her grandmother asked, gently wrenched the tube of paint from her grip, "why are you still talking to me?"

Carmine watched helplessly as black butterflies coated in white paint dropped to the dusty floor one by one. Just as her Nana's head fell into her arms. Speechless, she took the tube of paint where her grandmother had seized it and read it carefully: Shade: Denial White #FFFAFA.

A Walk in the City

Sophia Verrechia

“Smile, sweetheart.”

His voice is kind, Soothing, Seductive even, Dripping with artificially sweet vanilla. The words on the brink of being a command, But it’s laced with niceties.

You put your head down and keep walking.

“Come on, what do I have to do to get you to smile?”

He says as if it’s an offer.

Like it’s a choice for you to be in that position. You shudder as you think about what he wants to do. What he would do.

What he could do.

“You know, you’ll look better if you smile.”

He phrases it as if it’s a benefit. It’ll help you to help him.

Giving him what he wants will make you happier. So happy that you’re too damaged to say no.

You’ll be sweeter.

So sweet that once you become bitter it burns. You’re prettier.

So pretty that your face outshines the bruises on your body.

You pull your jacket around your frame, wishing your shirt wasn’t quite as tight.

“Give me a smile.”

He says it like you owe it to him, Like you owe it to him to lift your chin and curl up the ends of your lips. Because the fact that he’s giving you attention Means you must give him something in return. Your pace quickens, and you curse your heels as they click on the pavement.

“Ah, so you’re playing hard to get?”

It’s a game now, Or maybe it always was.

You didn’t realize you’d agreed to play.

That your very presence,

The fact that you looked like something he wanted,

Needed, Craved,

Plunged you into a game you would surely lose.

“I’m a very patient man.”

Well, what happens if he gets impatient? If he gets fed up with the lack of reciprocity? Will he take you?

Beat you?

Dehumanize you?

Your eyes flick around the cityscape, Searching for someone, Anyone, Who could help.

“I didn’t realize what pretty eyes you have.”

Now he’s seen those too. Now those are his too.

Would it be different if you’d covered up today?

Maybe if your shirt wasn’t quite as cropped Or your skirt was just a little bit longer.

Maybe if he couldn’t see as much, he wouldn’t want as much. Maybe some of you would still be yours.

“You don’t want to test me.” Here come the threats. They could be baseless. They could be empty. But what if they aren’t?

Would anyone really help you if he acted on them? Or would they all say you deserved it?

Wanted it?

Asked for it?

“Last chance sweetheart.”

The niceties are gone, seduction replaced with rage.

He’s closer now.

You feel his breath on your cheek, His eyes on your figure. His hands on your waist.

So you look at him. You force back the tears,

You force down the screams, And you smile. You smile the brightest smile you can manage. Because you’re terrified of what will happen when you do, But you’re more terrified of what might happen if you don’t.

“Good girl.” It’s a whisper, A label. A claim. His grip tightens. You beg him not to. You did what he wanted, But you’re his now. All his.

And as freedom fades all you can think, Is how you wish your skirt wasn’t quite so short.

Searching for the Non-Existent

Shannon Ziegler

In 7th grade, my elbows started to hurt. I thought nothing of it; maybe I had slept on it strangely that night or perhaps I ran into the doorframe and made it feel sore. The next day, though, it still hurt. And then the next day. And the next. It would also get stuck and need to be cracked. My mom and I were concerned that I may have sprained it or injured it in some way, so I went to an orthopedic doctor and they took x-rays, only to find that my elbows looked perfectly normal. I was sent home with no answers, and my elbows still hurt. Flash forward five years to 12th grade, and my elbows still hurt and get stuck and crack. But now, add on pain in my shoulders, back, knees, feet, fingers, wrists, hands, and ankles. That’s my invisible illness. So invisible that no doctor has been able to find an answer or a diagnosis, or even a medicine to help.

My knees started hurting next, around a year after my elbow pain began. It started out as a dull ache, and again, I thought nothing of it. Sometimes, knees just hurt. But then, similar to my elbows, they hurt the next day. And the next day. And the next. This dull ache turned into a tightness, which then turned into a tearing or ripping. They pop and crack, get stuck, give out. On a good day, they have a very intense tightness, deep down under my kneecaps. Bad days vary. Sometimes, it feels like they’re being crushed in a vice, with someone tightening it harder and harder. Other times, it feels like my kneecaps are ripping from my tendons. Doctor after doctor agreed that a weakness in my knees was the culprit. I’ve tried five different types of braces on my knees, because another theory was that my kneecaps were too mobile. The knee braces did nothing but cause me embarrassment and harassment from my peers. I was told I was faking an issue for attention. There are three years’ worth of photographs of me with my knee braces.

The pain in my shoulders and neck caused chronic tension headaches. I couldn’t pay attention in class, I would feel disoriented, and I would get very irritable. Sometimes, I would be knocked out from the pain and sleep all day. They would get so bad some nights, though, that it was impossible for me to sleep. I would wake up the next morning without a headache, but my mind felt sore. It was like my brain had been bruised. I could barely leave the house. I felt immobilized by these headaches. But I had to keep living my life! I had to go to school, had to go to marching band practice, had to go to family events. I would sit there, suffering, taking in nothing around me. I was in my own world of immense pain.

The pain makes me want to smash my head open and take it out. I want to open my head and pluck out every last bit of the pain. When I can’t sleep at night from it, I push my neck down on the headboard of my bed to try to get rid of any knots. Pushing down in the right spot relieves the pain for a split second, but that split second means the world to me. I wake up with bruises down my neck from pushing so hard. MRIs showed nothing wrong in my head. Physical therapy for my neck and shoulders proved to once again show no results.

When I run, my ankles immediately collapse. The pain in my back makes it nearly unbearable to sit or stand up straight. My shoulders constantly feel tight or painful. It hurt too bad to sit and play my trumpet. Any little thing will hurt my wrists. They feel sprained most of the time. The joints in my fingers will start to ache, the meat of my hand into my wrist will feel sore and pound with pain. X-rays of my hands come back showing nothing wrong.

My hands don’t consistently hurt every Friday night, my back doesn’t hurt every morning when I wake up, and my elbows don’t crack every Wednesday. Some days, I have no problem going up the stairs, but other days, I can barely stand up from sitting on the couch. Sometimes, resting will make the pain subside, but other times, resting will make it feel worse. I will get asked about what activities make the pain worse, what times of day is it the worst, is there anything I do that makes me feel better. I just have to tell them every time- There is no correlation whatsoever. Sure, lifting a heavy box will make my knees hurt more, but so will sitting on the couch. But, I could go lift a box today and feel no pain from it. It frustrates me, because I never know what will happen. Will this action cause me to be in more pain today? What makes it even more frustrating is that trends are important when it comes to getting a diagnosis. What happens when there is no trend?

I have seen ten doctors over the past five years. Orthopedic specialists, neurologists, rheumatologists. They would poke at every part of my body. They would watch me walk, look at how I stood, move my legs up and down. They would shove their fingers under my kneecaps. I’d leave these appointments in more pain than when I came in. I’ve tried every over-the-counter medication, like Ibuprofen, Advil, and Aleve. I’ve tried Gabapentin, a few antidepressants, and other prescription medications. No relief. For years, doctors told me I was having normal growing pains. Take some Ibuprofen and use some ice, and I should feel better. I would sit on the couch every night with ice around my shoulders, on my knees, and on my feet. I took the medicines regularly. This was not working.

It is the worst feeling to not know what’s wrong with you. I was thankful to have an answer, to have a name.

One doctor suggested Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. Finally, a name! It only took about four years to get a name, but at least it happened. This doctor was certain with his diagnosis. He had me do a short hypermobility test. I stood straight and he looked to see how far my knees went back. I held out my arms and he checked out the bend in my elbows. I showed him how I can easily push my thumb back to touch my wrist. He asked me some questions about myself and how my body reacts to certain things, like bruises and muscle weakness. This doctor gave me suggestions, put me on some medicine, and sent me on my way. I felt relieved to have a diagnosis. It is the worst feeling to not know what’s wrong with you. I was thankful to have an answer, a name. I left there with a smile on my face, instead of the regular tears and let-down hopes. This man had listened to everything I had to say and looked at my body in ways other doctors had not tried before. He made me feel comfortable and confident, and gave

me information that could possibly change my life. The pain never went away though, or at least subsided. It just got worse. Spread throughout the rest of my body. I tried going to the chiropractor, but that only left me in more pain. Another doctor told me it was, in fact, not Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. He couldn’t, though, tell me what it actually was. Every doctor could agree on three things: I was hypermobile, they don’t know what the problem is, and I need to try this different medicine.

I have been put in prison with no crime being committed. I can’t participate in school sports. I can barely get up the stairs. I feel left out. Nobody I know can relate to this. I get made fun of, with people telling me I’m faking it, overreacting, or saying that I have every problem in the medical books. I have been told by numerous doctors that nothing is wrong with me. I’ve tried the medicines, suffered the side-effects, completed the treatments, only to find that they didn’t work. I break one wall, only to have a stronger one be put up right in front of me. I see how much this has progressed throughout the years, from uncomfortable elbows to unbearable, full-body pain. I worry for the future. Is this as bad as it gets, or will it get worse? If I can barely handle it now, how will I handle it then? There is a correlation between physical health and mental health. I have become limited in my activities. I’m known for my strange health problems rather than my personality and actions. I live with something unknown every day, living misunderstood by my family and peers. Living misunderstood by myself. Physical pain seems to target every part of the body, sliding its tendrils into my head and plugging itself in. It drains the happiness and energy, drains the ambition and motivation, drains the strength. Doctors ask how my body is, but not how my brain is. The mental health aspect of any problem should be treated almost as seriously as the physical aspect. They go hand in hand, but are not treated as such.

“You have the body of a 45-year old,” my rheumatologist said at my most recent appointment.

I just sat there and stared.

I am 18 years old. I am living as if I were a middle-aged woman. He proposed the idea that I may have arthritis. I got the blood drawn, peed in the cup, let him bend my joints in strange ways, got x-rays on four different areas of my body, tried the arthritis medication. When he left the room, I turned to my mother and began to cry. I wasn’t sure whether or not I should feel relieved or sad. I now had a name, but a month later, I went back for my results. I told him the medicine had made no change in the pain. He told me all the tests came back perfect and the x-rays looked completely normal. Nothing was wrong with me.

The rheumatologist came up with a new theory that I haven’t heard from other doctors. He thinks my body may be making the pain up, or exaggerating the little bit of pain that is there. The receptors send signals to my brain, saying that this pain is serious. My body is making it up. I have been put on a new antidepressant. The goal is for the medicine to suppress those receptors. The pain will not go away, but it will be muted. If this medicine works.

Sometimes, I trick myself into thinking nothing is wrong with me, into thinking I’m overreacting, I’ve been making it up this whole time. That’s what happens when all you hear from doctors is that nothing is wrong with you. My body is perfectly normal. I can physically do anything I want. I have no breaks, no fractures, no bumps or bruises, no tumors. The naked eye can detect nothing wrong with me, nor can medical-grade equipment and professionals. My condition is so invisible that it does not even exist.

I refuse to be told it’s growing pains any longer. I refuse to be told I am overreacting, or that I’m weak. Another brick wall has been placed in front of me. I am stuck again in this cycle of trying to break the wall, only for another one to be right behind it.

Something invisible has controlled my life for 5 years.

But I will continue to be strong.

To keep trying to find an answer.

To make it not-so-invisible any more.

Cognitive Jewelry

Rocky Shuler

what happens when you start to hang your worries on wires? what if your diamond earring was the tear in your eye, or your necklace was a distant anxiety that seemed to choke you? what happens when your heart-shaped locket starts beating? be careful, the metal will get too hot if it beats any harder. one day you’ll drop it and it will break. this is inevitable. all jewelry rusts. imagine if your rings were too tight. you couldn't twist them off, like the breath stuck in your throat. you’d pry at them but they’d only get tighter, and as you’re frantic for circulation your headache would feel like fire. each day you wear more jewelry. people compliment your bracelets and ask where you got them. you wear them all the time. they ask you why you shower with them on. won’t they get ruined? you couldn’t take them off even if you tried. that metal chain is the taste of blood in your mouth, the stinging in your eyes when you cry. those pendants, colored crimson, lavender, and black well, they might as well just be a panic attack. are you really wearing fake diamonds to hide your insecurities? how will you be taken seriously? this jewelry costs more than your own well-being. the mood ring you have is always gray and dark now. why does it turn brighter when your friend tries it on? your worries will suffocate you, proposing with the most expensive rings they can find. you never turn them down. it never crosses your mind. what happens if you’d try to let things go? give up that cordiform necklace, you've been wearing it too long. it’s only held together by a knot. if you take it in slow, careful steps, you’ll eventually get it off. take your rings, one by one, run them under hot water and heal your bruises while you’re at it. imagine your skin with nothing attached to it, no trembling or aching or pain. you might be tempted to wear one or two rings some days. that’s okay. what if you took your worries off those wires, and placed them elsewhere to sell? they’re not heirlooms, throw that hell in the wishing well. grant it, and maybe you’ll say I won’t be wearing any jewelry today.

What These Ashes are Made of

Lucy Cooper-Silvis

Even though seventy-some feet of earth dulled the fire to nothing but noise, Emilia sprinted down the Bunker’s hallways. Her footsteps pounded against the low-pile carpet, nearly slipped as she whipped around a corner. Emergency lighting flickered, stuttered. Her heart beat in her eardrums, a rabbit’s thumping. Bathed in light, and then in shadow, and then in light once again, Emilia finally, finally reached her apartment door.

She’d lost her original key weeks ago it was probably rusting away in Floor B18’s weedy soybean patch so she used her backup to unlock the door. It was a heavy brass thing, and her shaking hands forced it three times into the lock before the mechanism clicked.

The door sliced open, exposing a semicircle of the room in blue-white light. A river of overdue children’s books swept around a mattress covered in sports team blankets and hand-me-down quilts that smelled like piss no matter how many times Emilia brought them to the Bunker’s laundromat. The room’s walls were so close they loomed over the child who trembled on the bed.

Lizzy’s shoulders shook with the effort of breathing. Gasps clicked in the air, sharp, defined. Her black halo of curls sucked in the light from beyond the door, but the tear and snot tracks down her face glowed like fire.

“Baby,” Emilia breathed. She rushed for the mattress, boots snapping against children’s books. As she collapsed at the bed’s foot, Lizzy buried her face in the crook where Emilia’s neck met her shoulder. Lizzy reeked of urine herself, warm and sour. “It’s okay, baby, the fire can’t get us down here.”

Sobs curled out from Lizzy’s mouth and dripped down Emilia’s back. Emilia pressed her hip into the mattress to squeeze Lizzy closer, close as possible. “I-I was so s-scared, Mommy.”

“I know, baby, I know.” Emilia rubbed Lizzy’s sweaty spine. Did she have a fear of fire before? Although she wasn’t certain, Emilia thought Lizzy used to cry about a wolf with hands that laughed at her from under the bed. “You know, I came as soon as my floor was alerted of the fire. I came right up here. I didn’t even ask Ms. Mabel if I could leave.”

Lizzy pulled back from her mother to look her in the eyes. “R-really?” Her fist crushed against her nose, trailing boogers across her cheek.

Emilia wiped away the snot with the starchy corner of her uniform’s sleeve. “Mmhmm. I dropped all my weeds right into the garden. And tomorrow, I’ll have to pull them back up again.”

Smiling, Lizzy leaned into her mother’s embrace. As Emilia stroked the child’s back, she said, “You know, I ran into Ms. Lise on my way up here. She was going down to tech. She said there’s some damage to the overland building, but there’s no fire in the Bunker, baby girl.” Lizzy made a muffled noise into Emilia’s shoulder. It sounded positive. “You still scared, Lizzy Grizzly?”

Lizzy laughed a little at the nickname and peeled herself away from her mother. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, yet a smile shone on her face. “Mommy,” she giggled, pushing at Emilia’s shoulder.

“What?” Emilia drew back from Lizzy. She lay a hand over her heart in mock innocence. “Does Lizzy Grizzly fear the… tickle bear?”

“No!” Lizzy shrieked as her mother descended upon her. Emilia tickled, and Lizzy laughed and laughed, the sound so wonderful to Emilia’s ears that she laughed too. The blankets joined the picture books on the floor in seconds, and the shuddering of the hallway’s lights seemed more like Finn’s camera going off rather than a tech malfunction.

The moment broke when Lizzy rolled deeper into the mattress and pressed her back against the wall. She breathed loudly through her mouth, her tank top wrinkled around her body.

Emilia flopped next to Lizzy, and the whole mattress bounced. “Mommy, your boots!” Lizzy cried in delight.

“Oh, these old things?” Emilia lifted a rubber boot. Fertilizer and tramped weeds plastered its sole. “I’ll clean up the mattress later. Don’t you worry a bit, Lizzy Grizzly.”

“Mommy,” Lizzy laughed, wiggling to snuggle against Emilia and grasp her freckled bicep. Silently, Emilia watched her stare out the doorway, into the hallway. Her fingers tightened into a vise around Emilia’s arm.

It was rare they were hit by a fire so strong. Emilia hoped it was a fluke, not a sign to move further inland. Lizzy had just gotten comfortable with her first-grade classmates, the round-eyed, silent flock they were.

“Mommy?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Can you tell me the story of the coral reefs?”

It was rare they were hit by a fire so strong. Emilia hoped it was a fluke, not a sign to move further

inland.

Emilia rustled to her side and looked at Lizzy. “Lizzy, you know Mommy doesn’t like that story,” she said softly. She’d told it to Lizzy a year ago, their first night in the Bunker. They were welcomed in, panting and crying, fresh survivors of the Great Fire with nothing in their pack but a bottle of water thickened by backwash. That night, Emilia’s tongue had been loosened both by Lizzy’s inconsolable sobs and the cup of warm wine she’d been offered by a medic.

“Please, Mommy? Then then you can go back to work. I’ll go right to bed.”

Desperation was high in the child’s voice. A sheen of tears pressed forward and armored her eyes. With a sigh, Emilia relented. “Okay, baby. Just for you.”

She bit her lip. “When… when Daddy and I got married, a long time ago, he suggested honeymooning in Australia. He said that we would go just for the honeymoon, but I knew he had that photography thing with National Geographic, too. But, um, he told me we were going to go scuba diving and look at all the fish. ‘Think of the fish!’ he said.” Emilia smiled at the memory. She raised her arms in an

echo of Finn and said, “‘Think of the fish!’” Her smile fading, she lowered her arms into her lap.

“Mommy, where was the Great Barrier Reef?” Lizzy held out her hands and splayed her fingers in the semi-darkness of the room.

“Around Australia. It ringed Australia like…” and here, Emilia hesitated, her breath catching. “Like… oh, I don’t know, Liz. It ringed around Australia like the Great Barrier Reef.”

Lizzy brought her fingers together, then splayed them again. “Today in school, Sally told me that that Australia’s going un-der-wat-er.”

“No, baby, just its coast.”

Lizzy’s arms faltered in the air. “But Sally said ”

“Well, Sally’s wrong.” Emilia turned onto her back to stare at the ceiling, which winked at her, sporadically illuminated by the hallway. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry. It’s just been a stressful day, with the fire and all…”

“But Mommy, you said we’re safe.”

“We will be. We are. I promise. When I saw Ms. Lise, she told me that the vents are already sealed. There’s no chance of the fire getting in.”

“Are you gonna marry her, mommy?”

“Lise?” Lizzy nodded emphatically. Think of the fish! “Maybe. We’ll see.”

“I miss Daddy, Mama. I like Ms. Lise because her name is like mine, but I want Daddy.”

Emilia’s throat squeezed.

“Mommy?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Can you tell the rest of the story?”

Emilia sighed. She rolled to her side, away from Lizzy, so she could speak to the floor covered in children's books with shiny plastic covers. “Yeah,” she murmured, “I can tell the rest. Your daddy and I went scuba-diving as soon as we got there. The rental place had different colored suits, and I don’t remember what I picked, but your daddy got a red one. He said it matched his hair.” Oh Christ, Finn loved my hair. Crow’s nest, he called it. He loved

Around tears, Emilia said, “I’m not sure how long we were out there, but God… it was beautiful. The sand had all these ripples in it, and the water was clear, filled with fish. There were so many colors, more than black and gray and red. There were pinks, and blues, and even greens. So much life, and no more…”

Lizzy pulled at Emilia’s shoulder, and Emilia stared at her daughter’s unicorn tank top and black halo. “Mommy,” she pressed, “what about the turtle? You said last time there was a turtle. I remember cuz you said Daddy said it was his favorite.”

“It was, baby, it was his favorite.” The last turtle, he’d said, watching it through his scuba mask. Emilia’s memory didn’t have the turtle in it, though. It only had Finn and his sad, sad eyes.

Emilia bit her lip, hard, and she could taste pennies in her mouth. What she would give to be in the soybean patch right now, thinking of nothing but the photosynthetic bulbs that needed to be replaced

But Lizzy wasn’t done. “And Mommy, last time you said you said you’d tell me more next time. You promised, Mommy. What else did you see?”

“What else did I see?”

A great stretch of dead whiteness. Lines of cars on choked highways. Cancelled flights and hurricanes and firestorms. A Bunker in Hell, too slow to close its vents, too slow, no Ms. Lise to close the vents, oh too slow. Red hair in the fire, sad eyes gone, gone

Emilia stood. The soles of her boots cracked the spines of children’s books. Lizzy scrambled forward and looked up at her mother, her face pale from the emergency lighting of the hallway. “Mommy?” Lizzy asked. “Are you okay?”

“Nothing,” Emilia said. “I saw nothing.”

“Mommy?”

Emilia looked towards the entrance, clutching her elbows to her body, her lips quivering. Haltingly, she managed, “You’ve kept me long enough, Lizzy. Ms. Mabel’s probably noticed I’m missing by now. Get to sleep.”

“Mommy?” Lizzy said again, once Emilia reached the door. It took every ounce of strength Emilia had to turn around, to look her daughter in the eyes. Lizzy perched at the edge of the mattress. “Mommy,” she whispered. Her chin trembled. “Please don’t go.”

But really, Emilia was gone before she held herself close and disappeared into the flickering hallway.

I Wish Alli Reeser

I wish you knew how you made me feel. I’m a good person, so why would I ever wish that upon someone I don’t, but only if you knew.

Seven years old, I knew who I was.

Eight years old, I came out to my sister.

Twelve years old, my mom found out.

Thirteen years old, you reached into the closet and pulled me out with no remorse. But it was my fault, wasn’t it?

I wish you knew how you made me feel. But I hope to god no one ever feels that way again.

Middle school was hell

I still remember it like it was yesterday. Because I was afraid.

I was scared to death.

My eyes locked on the tile floor of the locker rooms because if I looked up at the clock you would tell them I looked at you.

I spent my lunches in the guidance office because I didn’t want to answer your sarcastic questions anymore.

I was left there, stripped of my confidence and pride but the daggers kept coming. I was left there, and no one understood what was going on inside my head. I was left there, and you took that decision away from me with no price to pay. You took that decision away from me with no price to pay.

I wish you knew how you made me feel, But I hope to god no one ever feels that way again.

Fifteen years old, people started to forget.

Sixteen years old, I had a significant other.

Seventeen years old, I look around, and what the hell is going on?

Is it cool now to be gay?

To have a gbf and spend time with someone who is comfortable with their sexuality, in their own skin?

Did I miss the memo four years ago when you tore me apart, ignored what my heart said, and played the part of the damsel in distress because you felt uncomfortable around me?

I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t do anything wrong.

Did I?

An outcast, out of the picture slowly disintegrating, disappearing in embarrassment with never-ending guilt that had no motive moving through my mind without a reason please tell me that I’m not crazy I feel insane this isn’t fair.

I wish you knew how you made me feel, But I hope to god no one ever feels that way again.

I know who I am now I know I am comfortable in my own skin Which used to be worn thin. I was in the dark unknown But now my worth is known. I am happy with my life, Which is free of strife. But in the back of my mind, I can always find Those memories of how you hurt me long ago But all I can do is let it go I am confident to the fullest extent Which is how I wish it always went. I have people supporting me, But that’s not how it used to be. I am part of the LGBTQ+ community I am lucky. I am lucky

And I still wish you knew how you made me feel, and I hope to god no one ever feels that way again.

Home Problems

Brooke Mitchell

The girl two desks down from me broke out in sobs and started trying to explain why she was crying. All I could think about was my weekend, about the sirens and the medic and how my brother walked in on my father’s overdose and came back out without letting anyone see him cry. I said, “I don’t care.”

Our teacher busied herself by her desk while Anna pressed her teary cheeks against Kila’s shoulder. Kila gasped. “How dare you say that? You have no idea what she’s going through.”

I handed them my pain, “Well, at least your dad didn’t overdose and die for a few minutes this weekend,” and hoped they would cut themselves on its edges.

The teacher should have pulled me outside of the class, should have done the same for Anna. She should have sent us to the guidance counselor. Instead, we let our trauma burn beneath our skin while she scratched ethos, logos, and pathos across the chalkboard. We spent most of the period in awkward silence.

A year later, Kila and I sat together in Algebra 2 college prep. The teacher let us break off with our partners to start that night’s homework. At some point, the conversation switched from functions to her aunt’s heroin-induced death.

“She was always the weird one in the family, so like Mom only let me meet her once or twice, so like it wasn’t horrible, but like she still died.” Kila said this without breaking her gaze from the worksheet margins she doodled on.

“I mean, when my dad OD’d last year, his heart stopped.” I watched her add shadows to the folds in the skirt she was drawing.

Her pencil paused. “Well, my aunt actually, like, died, so.”

Without missing a beat, I retorted, “Well, it was actually, like, my dad, so.” We both let our grief become anger and weaponized it for attention.

We both let our grief become anger and weaponized it for attention.

When the bell rang, I darted to my favorite teacher’s room where a couple of other semi-troubled students already gathered around her desk. I ranted about Kila, about my mother who said I should have already moved on from my dad’s OD. I found out later that the counselors were informed of every conversation. Most of the other kids weren’t fortunate enough to have adults who cared.

By junior year, I’d gotten over myself. The boy beside me in Consumer Math didn’t have his homework done, and I mock-gasped, “You didn’t do your homework?” The boy rolled his eyes and smirked (because it was a general-level class, and homework was for kids with 3.0s and proud parents).

Tristan, who sat behind me, didn’t catch on to the joke. He said something like, “Yeah well not everyone has Mommy and Daddy to help them with their homework.” I turned around and quirked a brow: My life isn’t what you think. He said, “Whatever, divorce doesn’t count.”

“My bio dad was an abusive alcoholic and my current one is a recovering addict.” I turned toward him, shoulders braced and ready to bear the weight of his trauma.

He answered, “My step-dad beat my mom and then beat me when I tried to stop him.” It wasn’t like either of us smiled in solidarity, but we did both let our gazes linger for a second as if to say, I see you.

When I left that classroom for my higher-level ones, I remembered to stop in the bathroom and shrug back on my 3.0, wore my parents’ pride like a resewn hemline.

In a literature class, the teacher questioned the honors students: “I once had a kid who took all below-general-level courses back when we still had those. But he was smart. He used to sit in my room and read Dante’s Inferno for fun. He was so smart, children. I convinced him to take a CP class his junior year and he was doing really well, so I got him to sign up for some HACC classes. I remember sitting right there with him at my desk and filling out the forms. All he had to do was show up to the class. He never did. Does anyone want to tell me why?”

She was talking about my Uncle Jared who graduated a few years back. Rundown: thirteen-year-old addict, alcoholic mother, missing father.

A student called out, “Because he was lazy.”

Cigarettes in the Rain Mandy Ritter

I woke up at 5 am to a flush of tourists beneath my balcony where my foot draped across the surface of my brand-new rolling tray. Monday morning and already the bouquet is dead.

J’ai allumé ma cigarette, gasped in my regrets, released the grey fog that clouded my body, inhaled yet againbut this time the moisture that rose through the soil, swept through my bones like a cold chill of an icy string of gum; the sky kissed my skin.

J’ai allumé une autre cigarette and pressed the toxic candy to my lips; reveled in the orange sandpaper that burnt my soul to a crisp, I exhaled you. Dead petals in the daylight. How can one extinguish the thing killing you when it’s also what grew you.

To plant the seed of this cigarette, it needed the rain. Yet the ash embodied in the tobacco plant will never bloom again.

I tasted the sorrow of the sky. I heard the peace of the rain. No longer were the birds chirping. No longer were the tourists lurking through this wet brick paradise.

The Angel at the Gates

Kim Heinzelmann

She asked me what I remembered.

No preamble; no beaming introduction of herself; no warm, soothing greeting for me; no explanation of my journey or its glimmering, unfamiliar destination. Just a stare that bore through me with shocking intensity, one which met my eyes like a slap of cold water to the face, one which penetrated straight through my flesh and blood and rifled through the contents of my personexamined my essence as if searching for a source of contamination.

She asked me what I remembered.

And I thought about this question long and hard, labored over it during many tortured, sleepless nights when my thoughts roared like thunder in my head. Dissected each word and its meaning carefully before answering. I found myself running through every moment leading up to the fateful day. I started asking myself how it had happened.

She asked me what I remembered.

So I told her I remember frigid winter evenings curled up at his side before a hearty, crackling fire while the wind howled and rattled the windows. I remember his breath cold against my face despite the dank, musty humidity of late-spring air that made our clothes cling to our skin. I remember summer nights lying on our backs in the grass, tracing constellations with our fingers for one another, listening to his assurances that I was brighter than any star in the sky. I remember feeling vulnerable, laid bare beneath his steady, constant gaze. He never once gazed at the stars on those nights, just as the cheerful flames had never been what kept me warm when the snows came.

I remember dark, secluded alleys where no one would look unless searching for something, where we could disappear yet never be alone. I remember his hands all over me. I remember our mingling passion, scorching our flushed, sweaty skin as surely as the fire in his veins did. There was a distinct memory of wanting to combust and burst into flames like dry timber beneath one of our precious, shared fires. All while I’d prayed to drown in the taste of him.

For if he was the noise of creation, I was the silence of apocalypse.

I remember our constant internal war, the clash of our beings. For if he was the noise of creation, I was the silence of apocalypse. We were fire and ice, earth and wind, dark and light, heaven and hell, yin and yang, space and time.

Until we weren't.

There was never a balance between us, not when there were wild, chaotic things crawling just beneath our skin. Ambition, adventure, wanderlust, desperation, claustrophobia. I was the inferno, not the flame; and he was the trickle, not the stream. He could never match me. No one ever could. I was untamed, unrivaled, unhinged.

There were no archangels in our story, only the fallen.

I remember dragging my hands through his hair just to find myself ripping matted, greasy clumps from my own skull the next night as I sobbed and fell apart on my bathroom floor, hysterical.

I remember screaming my throat raw until I somehow, miraculously succumbed to sleep. Nightmares plagued me that night, chased me to the dawn. Nightmares that looked a lot like him and had eyes that were just as lovely. Eyes I wanted to gouge out with my bare hands. In the morning, I coughed up blood until I was hoarse.

I remember clawing at my skin, wishing it didn't feel so tight.

I remember shattering to pieces and tearing myself apart.

I remember breaking down only to piece myself back together again when the sun rose.

I remember isolation, desolation, ruination. I remember rude gestures, raised voices, and unbridled anger that brewed like a tempest. I remember a clamor of harsh, brutal words that pricked skin like knives and made deaf ears ring.

I wish I didn't remember all the times our aimless, reckless fury brought us both down to our knees, trembling, wanting to comfort the other. Wanting the other to come to us first. But we both knew all too well that our combined hubris kept us locked in cages of our own making, a barrier between us that neither knew how to breach. One which grew thicker by the day - a stalemate that dealt damage to us both. Neither of us could survive the separation, yet neither could we bear to suffer the insult to our pride. Compromise was beyond our capabilities.

I remember arguments that meant nothing the next day.

I remember moods swinging with the fatality of an executioner’s axe.

I remember laughing when nothing was funny.

I remember the days when I was too weary to muster a smile.

I remember kissing him just to take away his scowl.

I remember mornings muddled by splitting headaches in the wake of nights corroded with weak liquor and weaker stomachs.

I remember climbing into the driver's seat of the car. I remember the weightless sensation of defying the laws of gravity, even if it was just for one fleeting moment, before the fall caught up to me. I remember staring at my reflection in the bottom of the bottle, not recognizing the gaunt face that blinked back at me.

She asked me what I remembered.

And that question dogged my heels and haunted me for weeks. Because, try as I might, I can't ever seem to remember feeling any semblance of remorse for smothering him with everything I was. I was not disgusted by how slick his blood felt as it slipped between my fingers. I wasn't disturbed or frightened by his broken bones and glazed, unseeing eyes. I wasn't concerned by his deathly pale skin. I don't remember who came to report about his condition while I swayed on unsteady, numb feet in a hospital waiting room. I don't remember whether I laughed or cried when they told me he was dead. Probably because that part never really happened.

There had been no white hospital walls, no dread-filled doctors, no numbing news. His suffering had not been so physical.

Still, I'd like to say I don't remember killing him, causing his agony, yet I can't. I am many wicked things, but I am not a liar.

When at first I chose to remain silent - distant and withdrawn - she spread her wings before the glittering, gilded gates and asked me the same question again. And only then did I know I couldn't hide, not if I wanted to enter. Not if I wanted wings of my own.

So I told her I don't remember letting go of the wheel. I don't remember ever grasping it to begin with.

I don't remember the taste of the alcohol or where I got it from. I can't recall if it was bitter or sweet or both. I don't remember if it burned my throat.

I don't remember being warned I was too drunk to turn the key.

But I do remember not having a chance to say a final good-bye.

I don't remember her name. Perhaps she never offered one when I came before her - just leveled me with a stare that could cut through bone and posed her question. The angel at the gates to the next life asked me what I remembered of the last one, and I wished I could have told her I remembered it all.

I don't remember losing control, but I must have, because there was an accident that broke something within him permanently. And though I killed himsplintered his soul and peppered the wreckage with debris, broke his heart and smashed the pieces beneath the bulk of the still-running vehicle - he still survived the actual crash.

Ask him when it's his time, was my long-awaited answer.

He remembers everything that happened, everything I don't. Because he watched it all happen, though it killed him to do so, for he’d truly loved me all along. He lived through every moment, witnessed it all rendered in stunning detail from the inside of the too-small car rank with the stench of booze. Because when that car flipped and the windows shattered and glass shards flew and time itself froze...

The broken body in his arms, the blood slipping between his fingers, the unseeing eyes…

They were mine. It was I who died, not him. And that's the last thing I remember.

Scarlet Fingers

Charlotte Budman

It seems as though I've been caught red-handed, distracted, daydreaming, a frame of mind in which I'm stranded.

Plan each day based on the time, but should it even matter? When wasted seconds only climb and the clock just bends whenever.

Starved for touch but too scared to ask, futile attempts To socialize with a mask.

Conversationsraw, unedited. No internal beta read, too mentally exhausted.

Schoolwork seems to pile like guilt. Early rise and late-night tears spilt.

My grip on reality is as loose as the laces of the shoes I wear walking barefoot in the house.

A hiraeth for a life I never knew watching the screen, ignore thoughts I withdrew.

Moments continue to slip through my fingers. I take time to sleep, but the regret of it lingers.

Wake up at 5:03 so that I can meet whatever

responsibility has kept me up for most December.

Weather dries, cases rise, I wonder why we act as if everything's fine.

Yet little comfort can arrive cause that "slip up" is someone's

Life.

And next time I wash my hands, I'll wonder if the drips are rinsing off the crimson color, or the trace of a virus.

But it's impossible to tell when the numbers only swell, so I can't help but think as the red drains down my sink.

Could I have been the reason for someone's light to blink into darkness?

With bloodied hands and tired eyes, broken mind and sleepless nights, unwilling to die, and yet so done with life.

Me.

Survive

Tristan Metherell

When you're a kid, you don't think about things as complexly as they are. If you grow up with your parents fighting downstairs, it's seen as normal and routine. If you get put in classes for "higher-level kids," you're told that you're smart, and that's final. When you look back and start to think that some of the occurrences in your childhood didn't happen to everybody, things start falling in place and they finally make sense. My "aha" moment didn't happen until middle school. Up until that point, I was just a happy-go-lucky kid, and I was never afraid to be myself. I didn't care about having long, unkempt hair, or wearing mismatched socks and blue sneakers with bright pink laces; that was just who I was. I didn't realize that all of that could change so quickly.

Moving up to sixth grade, my official start of middle school, was just like every grade before, but now just with a bigger school and more classes. I had, at the time, my closest friends moving up with me, and I was ready to take on the world. My first year of middle school wasn't anything utterly terrible, but it certainly wasn't ideal for me. I had lost my sense of sense almost entirely. I started realizing that I didn't know who I was, and that was absolutely terrifying. Then, I met somebody who truly admired me for who I was. This person, at the time, identified with gender way differently than I had ever thought was even possible.

I had lost my sense of self almost entirely.

We wrote letters back and forth. We were incredibly awkward with each other so we would write instead. It wasn't practical, but it worked. I talked to them every day and I learned more and more about the community they belonged to, and I realized that I had been feeling the same way. They told me that I had to be confident in who I was; to not be afraid. Seeing how confident they were really made me understand that being different is okay and it's not something that I should be ashamed of. Overall, meeting that very special person made me who I am today and I am so grateful.

After a while, I did some of my own research, and I found that I was transgender. I came out to everyone in about a week's time as I had finally felt sure about myself. From that point on, my outlook on life completely changed. I had found a new sense of identity. Even though I wouldn't be accepted in most places, I didn't care. I was happy with who I was, and the old me was long gone. Unfortunately, like everything good, it had to come to an end.

I entered the seventh grade. This year started off promising. My name and gender were changed on all my school documents, and while my father was unhappy about that, I didn't care. Some teachers took a little to adjust, but after they did, everything seemed pretty good. From there on, everything started to spiral out of control, and I didn't know how to stop it. Things happened very gradually at first. I would find myself in my room talking to myself about how I wasn't good enough,

didn't deserve friends, etc. This wasn't concerning to me because I just thought it was how my brain functioned. Then my grades started slipping. I never paid attention in class, I wasn't doing well on tests, and I had a lower grade than I'd ever had before. This caused a sudden drop in my self-esteem. Up until this point, I was good at everything academically. Nothing challenged me, and I was always "the smart kid." When my grades dropped, I believed that I wasn't "smart" anymore and that I didn't deserve to be in advanced classes.

After my grades started slipping, I told my parents that it was just a "hard math class" and that I was having trouble understanding. They bought it for a little while but it was getting much harder to hide. I would seclude myself in my dark, cold room for hours on end and I wouldn't talk to anybody. I turned to hurting myself and not talking about it. I needed to find something to get me out of this loop, so I resorted to making music and I found that I really loved it. I knew that I was going to audition for the school musical like I did the year prior, but I didn't know how much that musical was going to mean to me.

Audition day was frightening as ever, but everybody there told me that they believed in me. It was the first time that I felt like I belonged to something. A couple of days later, I had been cast, and I wasn't a lead role or anything, but I was just happy to be a part of something that was so important to me. The rehearsals were amazing! I loved the music and the dancing, even though I wasn't good at it. I would flail around on stage and look like a fish out of water, but I hadn't a care in the world when I was on that stage.

Most importantly, I loved the people. From that school musical, I met some truly amazing people who liked me for me. When opening night hit it felt like all of my anxiety and sadness went away. I felt so good about myself, and I felt like I could do anything. When the loud music played in my ears with the bright lights blinding me, it felt better than I could ever describe. Being on that stage with all of those people genuinely saved my life. I still had one year left of the dreaded middle school years, though. I wasn't entirely sure how I would navigate it.

When eighth grade hit, I still wasn't sure how to go about it. I figured I should just act like myself, something I should've done from the get-go. Nothing really significant happened for most of eighth grade, but when something did happen, it changed a lot. In February, a negative social media post was made about me. It wasn't that severe, but I reported it and my life changed. After that, it spread around like wildfire, and soon, everybody in the school knew who I was. People were talking to me who I'd never talked to a day in my life before. I wasn't sure if they were doing it because they felt bad for me, or because they realized I was somebody worth talking to. I hoped for the latter. That year, I also happened to land a lead in the school musical. Everybody was hugging me after the shows and telling me how great I was. It was the best feeling ever.

At the end of the year, we weren't in school due to the Covid-19 outbreak, but the end-of-the-year events were still happening. On one of the last days of school, the award ceremony videos were released. I was excited to see who all got what awards and whatnot. I watched through most of the entire video and I hadn't won

anything. I wasn't upset but I was a little disappointed in myself. Then, the last part of the video came on. It was an award called The Alice-Donovan award, which they classified as the most prestigious award given at my middle school. They started talking about who had won. I had my speculations about who it would be, but when they started describing the recipient, it sounded a lot like me.

I won. I actually won, I thought. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the kid they had described sounded so much better than myself. I was confused as to how people saw me so differently than I saw myself. I was sobbing at this point, my face illuminated from the glow of the bright gold font that my name was displayed in. "I made it," I thought to myself, closing my computer screen, having just realized that I did what I didn't think was possible; I survived.

So, You've Been Thinking About College

Allison Lonkart

Have you been thinking about college?

You know you should start now; it’s very competitive. Play a sport. Be team captain on varsity. Join a club. Join 10 clubs and lead each one of them. No, don’t take that class, colleges want AP. 98? That's not good enough. Get your grades up. But I’m tired.

You can sleep when you have a financially stable job.

Two, three, four hours of homework. I’m hungry.

Watch your sister, we’re going out. I have homework.

Should have finished it before you got home. The stress is piling, piling up. I can’t breathe. We’re not paying for college.

$10,000 $75,000 how will I afford this? I applied for a job. I’m hired. 4 hour shifts five days a week. I can barely stay awake in class.

Wanna hang out tonight?

Ye…(Key Club after school, softball practice at 4, work at 6, homework) Sorry, I can’t.

Have you applied yet? Priority deadlines are soon. You know your cousin just got accepted to Penn. A law major. What’s your major? Undecided.

That won’t do. You’re studying medicine. I’m tired.

I can barely run around the bases. I barely have enough energy to lift myself out of bed. Just a couple more months.

Why are you so unhappy? Smile you have nothing to stress about. Homework.

Have you been accepted yet? Should have started your own company.

Clubs.

Better call about your status. Is this worth it?

Your grades are slipping. So am I.

Your teacher called, you skipped class today. I fell asleep in my car. You really should be more social. I try. I try. I try. Waitlisted. Disappointing. I tried.

I want to be an electrician. You’re studying medicine.

I’m thin. I’m exhausted. I can’t do this anymore.

Ordinary

Walker Carnathan

James drove home from work. There was moderate traffic, but nothing special. The day had been a fine one. Not great. No, certainly not great. But far from awful either. Ordinary.

Plain cars rolled at precisely the speed limit beside him as he lightly bobbed his head to the tune emitting from his radio. His taste in music was typical. Each window was opened a medium amount so the sweet air of normalcy could waft into the vehicle. Clouds of regularity peppered the sky, a shirt of common color coated James’s chest. The simple car rolled to a stop as two average-sized boys in basic soccer uniforms crossed the street: the usual suspects. James had seen their team practice a few times, but not too many. They were okay.

When he reached his modest home, James was somewhat surprised to find his wife Mary already preparing dinner. She was an adequate cook. Their home was normal-sized, indistinguishable from those that surrounded it.

“Anything exciting happen at work today?” Mary asked as the two bit into their tacos.

James seasoned his tortilla chip with mild salsa. “Nope, not really,” James replied dryly. “Pretty normal day.”

“So no fires?” Mary acceptably quipped.

“No fires.”

Dinner ended at an ordinary time, and the pair chose an ordinary movie to watch over dessert. It had decent reviews. They both liked it, but didn’t love it. The bed the two shared was not too tall off the ground, but not too short, either. It took only faint effort to enter. Dreams of the expected danced in their heads as they slept, waking up only a few times. Morning’s alarm sent James to the shower, where he set the temperature right in the middle.

Dreams of the expected danced in their heads as they slept

Another typical day followed. Casual banter at the water cooler highlighted James’s shift. John proposed to his girlfriend over the weekend. Patty countered the story by complaining about a fight she and her boyfriend had engaged in the previous evening. The atmosphere of the water cooler had been balanced to somewhere between delight and dejection. Neutral. James offered his congratulations and his condolences.

Again James drove home, the routine growing, well, routine. Mindlessly he accelerated, middlingly he slowed. He took the usual route.

Over a modestly-sized meal, James and Mary conversed, sharing observations and if they dared, an opinion. Though never too radical in nature. As they talked at a uniform volume, a decently-sized spider made its way up the plain beige tablecloth. Mary, despite her standard eyesight, spotted it first, and let out an

unexceptional shriek. James readied his somewhat-tan hand to deliver an orderly doom.

“No, I got it,” she commanded, forcing James to return his cocked-back hand to its normal position.

Mary coaxed the spider onto a napkin, and at a brisk, yet controlled pace, walked the arachnid to the front door and set it free. She returned to dinner, and shared a warm smile with her semi-attractive husband. Not too warm, though. Ordinary.

Once again, the threads of consistency pulled James and Mary to bed, while the gravity of consistency gently pressed their eyes shut. The mediocrity of her slumber allowed Mary to awake early the next morning, when she quietly, but not silently, slipped out of the house. The air was temperate, and her hands on the steering wheel shook uncomfortably, but not uncontrollably.

Muted white paint coated the outside of the drugstore, and a fair-haired man worked the register.

“Good luck, whatever you're hoping for,” he said with a slight beep of the scanner.

There were no tune-ups on Mary’s car, the stock engine powered her commute. Her look was nondescript, with plain glasses to complete it. Her face was unmoving.

Driving home was a conventional experience. The roads were evenly paved, though not in any better condition than most others. The bumps were moderate, their effects unremarkable. Mary’s heart raced, but not too fast.

She arrived at her home and tore the medium-sized package open with decent ferocity. And then Mary waited. And waited. It felt like an eternity, but she was truly left in suspense for only an average amount of time. Ordinary.

And then the two lines appeared.

An exceptional feeling of joy filled Mary as she emitted a loud shriek. She rushed quickly in to wake her husband, who had been enjoying an incredible night of sleep.

“It worked! We did it!” Mary sang jovially, prancing around the bedroom as the world’s magnificent happiness flooded her. The feeling was amazing. Her hair fell perfectly, and her smile was gloriously infectious.

“We did… what?” James asked groggily, his brightly colored t-shirt glistening as the sun shone brilliantly through the window. Too brilliantly.

Mary giddily shoved the test into James’s hand, waiting for the result to impart the same ethereal joy upon him as it did her. The incredible, exceptional moment arrived without delay or disappointment.

“We did it! It’s happening! It’s really happening!” James exclaimed ecstatically, leaping out of bed and embracing his wife in an extremely warm hug. An intoxicating, nameless aroma filled their nostrils, and they danced to a wonderful song that didn’t exist. Nothing else in the world mattered except this astonishing, wildly above-average moment.

This extraordinary moment.

James and Mary are normal. Average. Regular. Common. Neutral. Adequate. Plain. Ordinary. And yet, in their own way they are extraordinary. Is there such a thing as ordinary?

Speak Alexa Marsh

Words fumble on my pink tongue, Stuck in a sticky, Soggy sack.

Crouched behind jagged, teethy Peaks, a mountainous Mound of muck.

Clinging to my little lips; A baby on its Mother’s breast.

Lost in tangled dreams, Not a word.

On Hands

Maya Fetrow

My father’s hands are almost painfully rough and I do not mean simply cracked and dry. His hands have splits and tears at the knuckles, permanent dirt caked beneath his nails, and firm callouses built on the pads of each finger. A man of trades, he uses “Gojo Pumice Hand Cleaner” to remove the grease and lubricant from his palms. He uses “Working Hands” cream to coat his skin in an extra protective layer. He is not afraid to use his hands for their intended purpose manipulating materials and instruments with an incredible degree of precision. My father’s hands represent strength, hard work, and drive they demonstrate his effort and passion for everything he does. They tell a story. A story of a life long-lived, full of adventures, tales, and experiences.

My hands are no exception. With short, stubby fingers, and dry skin, my hands are less than impressive. However, like my father’s, they are a token of my past. They house countless memories in their imperfections. On the pads of several fingers, I have calluses from the time I spend playing the cello. The repeated friction between the finger pads and the strings toughens my skin. With great dexterity and precision, my fingers create music tiny muscles in my hands twitch with electricity, allowing for fine control of each digit.

On the index finger of my right hand, there is yet another callous the tough skin running along the side of my pointer finger from the friction generated at track practice. As a thrower, my hands send sensory feedback to my brain. These little messages zip back from my head and signal my fingers to adapt to the stimuli. My hand can adjust to the weight and shape of my shot-put, javelin, or discus. I can sense the cool temperature of the metal, the spherical shape, and the hefty mass of the shot-put grasped firmly in my hand. I can feel the pads of my fingers strumming the corded javelin grip, sensing the spear seesaw back and forth, and straining against the weight of the tallest implement. I can hear the taps of my fingernails on the discus, the brushing of dirt from the grip area, and the blood rushing in my ears. While the movements are small and imperceptible to others, how I held my hand makes all the difference. Slight manipulations of my hand position result in an increase by five, ten, or fifteen feet. The implements release from my grasp and soar through the air before coming back towards the ground to land with a thud. My small muscles are capable of producing an incredible power.

There is a faint scar that runs along the pad of my ring finger. This pale, pink line transports me back to the time we went tubing down the Yellow Breeches. Bottomed-out, my sisters and I used our hands to pull ourselves out of a section of rocks in shallow water. I placed my right hand into the water, reaching for a steady anchor. Murky and obscure, as many creeks are, I was unable to see what I was grasping. I felt a pinch and reeled back from the source of pain. Cross-eyed with a furrowed brow, I closely examined the finger in question. A drop of blood beaded up, but the slice quickly smoothed over. After hemostasis and clotting, the wound

closed. Even with the healing powers of my body, however, years later, a scar still cleaves to the curvatures of my fingerprint a memento from a hot summer day spent with family and friends.

My hands transport me back to my childhood a realm of holding hands, playing with dolls, and painting with shaving cream in the bathtub. My hands gripped lollipop sticks, held blue freeze pops (my favorite), and molded mud into vague shapes. My hands weeded flower beds, stroked the fur of family pets, and plucked raspberries from the bushes in my grandma’s backyard. I picked blades of grass at soccer practice, chewed on my nails when anxious, and reached for hard to itch places on my back. As such a simple appendage, hands are overlooked in their necessity.

Growing up, teachers encouraged students to trace their alphabet and practice a proper pencil hold. We sorted tiny erasers by colors and wielded scissors for cutting on a line. I can remember the satisfaction of peeling Elmer’s glue off my fingers. I can remember the pain of a worksheet paper cut. I can remember using both hands for multiplication problems. We used our hand dexterity throughout the entirety of our educational journey not just in elementary school. In anatomy, we dissected pigs and cats a process that required precise cuts and steady hands. In calculus, we learned the “right-hand rule” for trigonometric functions. In chemistry, we controlled the release of a solution in a titration experiment through the use of a stopcock. Moment after moment, we put our hands to work they are an asset to learning, creating, and doing.

Moment after moment, we put our hands to work—they are an asset to learning, creating, and doing.

I can only dream of slender fingers, pretty cuticles, and unblemished hands. Unlike many other girls my age, my fingernails are not the same length with trendy acrylic sets. They remain bare and unpainted dirty from throwing practice and broken from various physical activities. While I envy those with manicures, I know that my hands are representative of my athleticism and drive. They are not meant to be perfect; they are an instrument meant to be used to fulfill their purpose a means of greeting others, carrying objects, and forming precise motions.

Whether it is a caress of the arm, a firm handshake, or a high five, touch is a physical language. This language provides many physical and emotional health benefits. Bonding, human communication, and health all heavily rely on the fundamental nature of touch. They are used as tools: braiding hair, plucking strings, and creating art. They are a means of communication dexterously used to record one’s thoughts, memories, and ideas onto a piece of paper. They are the gateway to discovery, written language, and production of art.

Hands are a constant in every moment of life, in the kitchen making jam, chicken pot pie, or processing corn. My grandma’s fingers are nimble and quick she peels potatoes and slices the kernels off an ear of corn faster than anyone I know (even those with peelers). My sisters and I would always watch as she wielded a knife with such finesse and strength. We were amazed by the habitual nature of her work

in the kitchen whisking, dicing, spooning, slurping, tossing, frying, and kneading, all movements committed to muscle memory. These same knife-wielding hands are an extension of her familial love upon touch, warmth and reassurance ooze from the tips of my grandma’s fingers. Her affection hugs, handholding, and hair twirling are simple means of connecting. Hands are meant to connect the life of one person to another. Cooking, sports, work, school, communication. This connection is vital. Touch is vital.

Indisposed Valerie Weigner

We grew up together

Always just across the street

Each other’s favorite neighbor

A friendship that could not be beat

Our ages never mattered

A three years difference felt like nothing

You were the brother I never had

We had a good thing going

Years go by, we’re both in high school

The two of us got older

Even with different classes, teachers, and friends I could always lean on your shoulder

You moved away to college I made a couple new friends

We never lost our unbreakable bond

Our relationship would never end I trusted you

Three years later I’m deciding on schools

Submitting my application for the one you attend

My only wish was to get accepted

Hoping that we could reunite again

I was sad to leave home, but excited for the future Fall came around and I started moving in Day by day, my elation grew

Happy that we would be neighbors again

Before I knew it, I was all settled in You promised to help me acclimate

We decided to go to a party

Bustling with anticipation, I just couldn’t wait

We arrived at the scene

It was overwhelming, to say the least I stuck by you all night

As my sobriety decreased I trusted you

I began to get worried

And stopped feeling like myself

You assured me that it was normal

We would go back to your place and rest

The night starts to deteriorate

You give me another drink

This wasn’t the original plan

Or at least, that’s what I think

Soon things start to escalate

Clothes are coming off

I don’t even recognize myself

You stand over me, tall

I wake up the next morning

Completely unaware

Of what had happened to night before

But I knew that I was scared I trusted you

My vision was still a little blurry

As I tried leave and go home

Your presence was no longer comforting

This feeling was unknown

Even more years go by

As I shove down the memories

I still haven’t come to terms

With what you did to me

One day during winter break

I finally understood

You swore to never hurt me

Which contradicted what I endured

I hope one day I can again

Look you in the face

But I’ll never forget the lies you told

And how you left your trace

I trusted you

Office Politics

Chalaina Potts

There was nothing more to be done for Mr. Backer, save to fork over his two weeks’ pay and scavenge up the spare filing box he had requested, which the obliging corporate admin had sent his secretary to do without delay. Possibly out of protest or possibly out of sheer whim, the secretary promptly dumped the files from said box out into the middle of the office stairwell, then collected into it Backer’s stapler, calculator, picture frames, and the exuberantly blooming Clarice, the potted succulent to which Backer was thoroughly devoted. These few small tasks accomplished, the corporate admin sent Baker on his way with as much pomp and fanfare as was allotted by the company budget. Baker was gone within five minutes, with his old Chevy puttering along out of the lot with as much grandeur as it could muster. The fender hitched alarmingly as it rounded the final speed bump. Boyce, the head of purchasing, remarked without enthusiasm that it was a shame, a complete and utter shame, to lose a good fellow like Backer. He then slipped off to the men’s room to call his wife, telling her that, yes, she should go ahead and get those tickets to Cordoba that she’d been eyeing, as he was now undoubtedly entitled to a slice of Backer’s salary. When he went to sit back down, he found Lovell, one of the underlings in accounting, shuffling her feet by his desk. Her head was bent awkwardly to one side, but at the last second she heard him coming and snapped it up again in a vain attempt to appear as though she hadn’t been reading his papers. It was a shame about Backer, she agreed, handing him a folder with lots of little colored tabs sticking out of it, and she wondered aloud what had led to his being unfortunately laid off. Whatever it was, she hoped she had not done anything similar. Boyce mumbled some vague assurances that of course she hadn’t, suggesting that perhaps the manager simply didn’t like the look of Clarice’s spines this season, and concluded that, well, as much as he hated to speak ill of the fired, anybody who devoted more time to their plants than they did to their spreadsheets was bound to end up in trouble eventually. This position was immediately refuted by the eavesdropping Hickley, the deputy head of the three-person purchasing department, who leaned in conspiratorially across the desk opposite and said that he could vouch for each one of Backer’s spreadsheets having been in in due time, as he had reviewed them all personally. The manager had asked him to, specially, and he wasn’t the sort of person to go against the manager then, was he? Lovell, looking quite perplexed, speculated that perhaps Backer’d been caught setting fires in the breakroom or something, to which Hickley replied shrewdly ‘had there been any fires in the breakroom?’ and Lovell was forced to admit that she didn’t think so. Wishing to seek guidance from a higher power than herself, Lovell returned to Boyce’s desk a few minutes later, dragging along old Mr. Attaway by the arm.

It seemed distinctly unfair to end someone’s employment based on an unproven theory.

Attaway was the manager’s personal secretary (not the other, paper-spilling one), and had been since before the current manager was even born. One simply seemed to inherit him, if one got high enough up in the company, like an old wicker chair or revolution-era bed frame, which one saved for propriety’s sake instead of trying to force out with a mandatory retirement age. Attaway said that he hadn’t the slightest idea why Backer had been booted, but remarked sagely on such events being ‘the way of things sometimes, you know,’ with all the noncommittal generality of someone who has seen a good deal of life but is so far unable to summarize it. Finally pressed to conjecture by the pleading of Lovell and Hickley, Attaway admitted to having the private theory that Backer had been ‘cooking the company books’, as the expression went, and had been secretly rerouting funds to some secret off-shore bank account as yet undiscovered by the IRS. The manager was quite a perceptive man, Attaway elaborated, and even if he couldn’t prove it to the police, he was sure to figure it out himself and send Backer packing as soon as possible. This, he added, would explain the lack of any definitive reason for Backer’s termination, as speculative embezzlement allegations were hardly the sort of thing that got printed in memos from head office. Apologies from corporate that there would be no bonuses this year due to belt-tightening budget adjustments, sure, but not unsubstantiated embezzlement. Hickley, very much intrigued, asked Attaway where he thought this shadowy bank account might be, to which Attaway responded (after quite a long pause for effect) that Backer had told him several times about his honeymoon with the late Mrs. Backer to Moscow, and, well, didn’t it just follow that Backer would have some connections there?

The audacious young general secretary (he of paper-spilling fame) was just returning from an unannounced second lunch break in the parking lot, when he saw the little gathering forming around Boyce’s des, and diverted from his route back to his desk to catch the tail end of Attaway’s remarks. He shook his head vehemently at Attaway’s conclusion, and, without the slightest thought for Boyce’s permission, took a seat on the edge of Boyce’s desk, from which he argued that anything to do with bank accounts was a quite erroneous conclusion, and that Backer had, in God’s honest truth, surreptitiously murdered the late Mrs. Backer several months ago with a small steak knife. With the air of a particularly intrepid lawyer, he explained that Backer had always kept a photo of her up on his desk, and didn’t they all know how murderers liked to gloat over their victims? Besides which, he said, Backer had always been that nice, quiet type that you never suspect, but who always turned out to be the killers or the assassins or what have you when they finally reached their breaking point. When asked why, if Backer was a cold-blooded killer, the general secretary had so dramatically protested his firing, the secretary responded that murder or not, there was no company policy against homicide (he would know, having had to read the HR manual nearly cover to cover while writing up all those little forms for the manager about Backer’s repeated theft of office supplies), and it seemed distinctly unfair to end someone’s employment based on an unproven theory that, even if correct, had no bearing whatever on his performance as an employee.

This theory turned the remaining office, who had, with the exception of the manager, all joined in the debate, into something of a split camp. Half said Backer had been an embezzler, the other said murderer, and either way the manager was in hot water with everybody but Attaway for having the gall to fire Backer without evidence. Lovell, who had responded to the crisis with her usual unerring practicality, had spent her coffee break scrounging up pins and notecards and twine, with which to make a sort of evidence roster on the large bulletin board on the wall above the accounting department, her hope being that with a touch more organization, they would be able to prove things definitively, one way or the other. It was a very tidy piece of work, all told, and Lovell was pleasantly tempted to consider bringing it up during her next promotion meeting. It was to Lovell that the credit duly went when wise old Attaway stumbled across the new popular theory of Backer’s termination, while staring at the connected notecards labeled ‘Moscow’ and ‘Homicidal’ (the evidence noted under each being ‘honeymoon,’ and ‘nice; kept photo of wife,’ respectively). He pulled over a stray desk chair and mounted it, as a pulpit, from which he expressed, in a moment of complete clarity, what it was that had actually occurred. The way he saw it, Backer was undoubtedly one of Putin’s spies, working for the Kremlin and gathering information on American businesses to send back to Moscow. His wife, poor woman, had probably worked it out just as the manager had, and in a moment of desperation he was forced to murder her to keep the whole thing properly hushed up. This, as he explained, was the only logical conclusion to be drawn from the evidence presented. The general secretary nodded his profound approval and added supportively that, although Attaway appeared to have forgotten about the embezzled money, he had probably been wrong about that in the first place, and so it need not be factored into their calculations. Attaway gratefully agreed, eminently pleased with himself, as he had some years ago entered that phase of life when one’s idea of enjoyment becomes lying back in a leather armchair or sofa and reading perhaps a few more mysteries than is good for them.

There was only one hiccup in this theory, as pointed out by a junior member of the sales team, which was that, if any of them had spent half a second studying world politics, they would understand that Russian spies were supposed to poison people, not go about stabbing them. Another member of the sales team stepped in, heatedly, before either Attaway or the general secretary could address this, arguing that Mrs. Backer hadn’t necessarily been killed with a small steak knife and that perhaps she was poisoned, and Backer’d simply covered that bit up too. Wasn’t it possible, after all, that Backer had stabbed his wife postmortem, in order to hide the fact that really she’d been poisoned? That way, at least, nobody would suspect the Russians. And, besides, doing things postmortem was how it was solved in all the good detective stories. And, furthermore, even if that wasn’t true, maybe there hadn’t been any knife at all - one couldn’t expect the poor general secretary to know everything. The first salesman conceded the point, retreating away on the insistence that he had some important paperwork waiting that really must be finished. Somebody else, this time of day a janitor who had happened upon their purchasing

office situation room and had found it quite a diverting little puzzle, finally remembered Backer’s plant, and put forward tentatively that perhaps it was from Clarice that said poison had been acquired. He acknowledged the knife theory to be most likely incorrect, as he had heard from Backer himself that the late Mrs. Backer had simply fallen ill, although, now that he reflected, what else would result from poisoning other than falling ill?

The final point raised in favor of Backer’s spyhood was simply how average (or even below average, as the HR director pointedly observed) he had always been, and how sinisterly adept at cruising under everybody’s radar (except of course for the highly perceptive manager) he had ultimately proved to be. He had come in everyday, hung his coat, adjusted the height of his chair, walked back and forth several times to the copier, made bland conversation with Lovell when she prompted him, complained about the thermostat, and hurried out promptly at 5 o’clock, just like everybody else, and that, as the general secretary insisted, was the sort of mastery of culture that one only saw from proper spies. There was a general murmur of agreement, and this was officially decided upon as the commonly accepted reason behind Backer’s termination in a vote of 18-0. There was an unspoken moment of admiration among each of them for the masterful deductions of the manager that had presumably led him to this conclusion faster than all of the employees combined.

Boyce, who had been mostly forgotten about during these proceedings despite being seated essentially at the center of them, and had been using the opportunity to finish some of the project recommendations (which were not the purview of the scrupulous Hickley) that Backer had neglected to submit, gave a deep sigh, collected the thick stack of papers in his hands, tapped them judiciously against the desk, and announced a well-deserved company half day on account of Russian espionage. And, well, he added, perhaps they had all better take a long weekend as well, as this had no doubt been very trying for all of them. He would see them all next Wednesday and hoped that they enjoyed tomorrow and Friday off. He looked pensively up at the clock and decided that he really must dash, and so have more time to pack a suitcase. Before leaving, he issued the very sensible order to the rest of the assembly that the manager, who had his blinds drawn and appeared to be deeply absorbed in some kind of company phone call, should not be bothered with this, as he was obviously too busy. They could be sure to thank him for his cleverness when they returned. There were nods or assent all around, and one by one people began filing out through the lobby doors, claiming their coats from the coatrack as they went. Only Attaway stayed behind, convinced that if Backer had killed his wife to cover up his secret then surely he would want to come back and finish off the manager as well. Lovell agreed that that was a most courageous and excellent idea but ducked out the doorway before he could ask her to stay. The general secretary remained with him for a while, writing rude notes on post-its about how the manager had no right to fire poor Backer at all, and did he really think himself the police?, which he entrusted Attaway to relay to him at the manager’s earliest convenience.

Quietus Jonah Spotts

For years, this door has been shut. Dark rust on the handles, Blankets of cobwebs smother the ceiling. Rats pacing back and forth, Like prison guards watching Poor souls collapse In a square of concrete.

Today, it was unbarred.

I thought her photo was gone. I swear it was. I saw it burn and Shape a twister of orange misdeed Trying to not lose grasp of my wrongs.

It sat under two floorboards. The half-light flooded Through the cracks to Expose her.

She was waiting like a spider, For me to claim Victim of her revenge.

Blood skews almost all of it, But her face is still visible. Tears challenge My memory, My mind is a whirlwind, but I never forgot.

I finished During twilight…

Secrets

Emily Thomas

Before I experienced racism face to face, I never knew just how ugly her face is. Racism has been in our history since the beginning. It stands as a sign showing how people will always believe one color conquers the rest. Most of the time those situations dealt with white versus black.

Years ago, black and white marriage was never seen as acceptable, and those who defied laws against interracial marriage had to face many harmful and hatefilled consequences.

I was born and raised in a half-white, half-black family, and I never thought anything wrong of my color as a child. I had female friends and male friends, but the color of their skin never made me think twice about talking to them.

When I was younger, my parents tried their best to shield me from the harsh reality of my life, but shields are only so durable until eventually, they break down into nothing. In other words, I grew up and had to face reality head-on.

Of course, my parents knew the time would come where I would ask them, “Mommy, why are these people staring at me so much?” or “Daddy, what do these words mean and why is mommy crying?” They knew the clock was ticking down as my brother and I faced reality.

As we aged, our minds and bodies matured to understand much more than either of us would have ever been prepared for.

It was a quiet day in the house when I learned about my family’s past. My dad had gone off after a heated argument between my parents turned more and more hostile with vile words flying out of their mouths.

.

.

.

some of the happiest people hold the darkest secrets.

I was able to get mom alone for a while when I asked, “Mom, why is dad always yelling at you about our family?” Deep, dark secrets that I had never known about soon became apparent and things finally started to make sense. The hostility between my black father and white grandparents became as clear as glass. The occasional arguments between my parents became understandable. I had come to realize one thing from that day; some of the happiest people hold the darkest secrets.

I had come to learn that my brother and I were seen as “the peace children” because of our skin color. We brought together a radical white family with a liberal black family. All those times people would stare at me as I walked and shopped around with my mom. All the growing comments from school friends as we age. And all of the arguing in the house, finally made perfect sense. Born between two opposing races, I learned where my place in the world was on that day.

As time passed, I thought back to what my mother had said about certain family members and how they liked and disliked select groups in each of my

families. My white grandparents never accepted my black cousins, and to this day my black aunts still do not fully accept my white mother as part of their own family. Days turned to years and I matured. Coming into my early/mid-teen years, the warnings began. Mom and dad gave us a lecture almost every night about what to do and what not to do if ever pulled over by police. They told us what to say, how to act, and how to not seem like a threat. My brother was confused why we needed these warnings, but I knew that our skin color is seen as a threat to some. All of this had me wondering, “Does my family see me as a threat as well?”. Quickly those doubts had ceased after I spent more time with some family members. Yet the slight resentment some have for others still and will always remain.

I have learned to grow and watch others at much more of a distance from the inner turmoil. I know who all I can call my friends versus just acquaintances. I know now that some people will have different opinions of me. While some will be positive, there may be many negative reactions as well. But I have come to terms with them all being part of life. My life specifically. People who know me know my past, my struggles, and my pain. Those who do not will know me by my personality, my voice, and my actions.

Through witnessing firsthand just how personal racism can get, I have grown. And as time progresses, so will I. I will learn from my own and others' mistakes. I will grow from the horrors I see in the news every day. And I will live on as the proud, mixed female that I am. I know my place now and that is wherever I decide to put myself.

No one else can decide your fate but you. Whether people judge you by your skin color, gender, political affiliation, religion, etc., they cannot and will not ever have the power to change who you want to be. And my family will never get to decide who I am.

Childhood July

KaraBarrett

Lick once, lick twice to catch the ice cream’s drops

The flavor of a carefree summer day

With sweating heat and cold lemonade sips

Jump in and out of misting hose’s spray

Until the breeze blows cool against my skin

We wrap in towels as the others play

My summer tastes of ice cream covered lips

Whipped cream, strawberries and mint chocolate chips

No Big Deal, Really

Madeleine Hendell

It started small no big deal, really. A missed breakfast on days where I overslept, a sudden stomach ache around dinner time, the ice cream at the park was just too cold for my sensitive teeth. “You’ve never loved dessert, it’s just too sweet,” I told myself, begging for it to be true. All big things have small beginnings, and my simple betrayals of desires would result in losing myself. Somehow, I found a way to rise to my feet after falling time and time again when all I wanted was to be left in my misery. A spiral of self-destruction that has taken months to even start climbing out of and a constant war with myself – no big deal, really.

All big things have small beginnings

I had always been one to push myself, physically and emotionally. An undeniable example of perfectionism at its finest, often to my detriment. Grades were everything, as was my involvement in extracurricular activities and volunteer work. In truth, I was never happy with how hard I pushed myself. Nothing was ever good enough, not in my eyes. Over time something clicked in my mind and I began to realize just how imperfect I was: stretch marks and curves that didn’t flatter my figure, a larger clothes size, and an inability to find jeans that looked good. What I did wasn’t good enough and neither was what I looked like while I did it. I wanted to change and so I did – no big deal, really.

As the world turned their fear and disgust towards the disease ravaging entire cities in Asia, I turned my disgust towards myself. It was simple at first, a few things missing from my plate here and there, maybe a quick mile run after school. Then it turned into entire meals absent from my diet and my fingers down my throat when I “indulged” in a miniscule portion of food. I was absolutely destroying my body... and I loved it. The dull ache of an empty stomach was my drug of choice and the adrenaline rush from seeing my ribs in the mirror pushed me to keep going. Sure, other things came along with my habits, but the hair loss, lightheadedness, blue hands, and brain fog didn’t matter – no big deal, really.

My physical decline soon became undeniable. While I saw beauty in every bone, I also saw fear in my loved one's eyes. As much as it hurt to see them that way, it was never enough I was never enough to stop. In October, 2020 my parents made the brutal decision to seek help for what had become out of my control. An hour-long car ride had us at the doorstep of inpatient treatment for eating disorders. I begged not to go in. “I’m fine! You don’t have to do this!” was all I could think. In reality, there was no choice in the matter. Taking those first steps inside was devastating, but even worse was seeing my parents walk away from me. Stranded, in an unfamiliar city, slapped in the face with the diagnosis no one wants to hear –anorexia. No big deal, really.

In the face of my capture, I didn’t eat. Not one crumb of food or sip of water passed my lips for three full days. The lab work I had been required to submit came back on the third day of my stay, and unbeknownst to me, I was in the beginning stages of kidney failure. I left the facility and immediately went to the hospital, too malnourished and foggy-headed to even comprehend the severity of my situation. Before I could object or voice my concerns, I had an NG tube placed to begin repairing my body from the immense strain I had put it through. I could acknowledge where I was and what was happening, but I couldn’t help but not feel sick enough. Sure, I had a feeding tube, but lots of people have them! No big deal, really.

My parents were devastated with the position I had gotten myself into, guilty and shameful that things had gotten so bad. Their shame affected me, though, and I knew for the first time that what I was doing was truly, unquestionably wrong. My mind cleared when it was fed, and strangely, that felt good. The new-found motivation I had gained terrified me, though, as well as the thought of returning to the inpatient facility for more specialized treatment. Nevertheless, that’s exactly where I went, but this time I ate. My drive to go home was so great that I could overcome the voice screaming at me not to take a bite. That’s not to say that things were always easy. I had my good days and my bad days, but the most important part was a drive to find at least some merit in recovery. No big deal, really.

My discharge was legitimate, as was my mindset change. I guess seventeen days in the hospital really does do something. I came home eating, still far too little, but better than before, and immediately went in partial hospitalization for further treatment. My family and I put so much faith into the process, trust in the system we had chosen, and we were let down. After ten weeks of therapy, it was evident that I had begun to relapse. I felt like I was back where I had started, in a dark place with my only goal being weight loss. So, I packed up my life again. We drove to Philadelphia and settled in for the long-haul. No big deal, really.

I had hope for the future but it was, yet again, squashed. The center I had admitted to started the refeeding process too fast, with too much vigor. I very quickly developed refeeding syndrome and had to leave treatment after just one week. My headspace wasn’t ideal, honestly, and I was in a worse spot than when I first arrived. We searched for a new center and found one that seemed better for my needs and more closely matched my parents’ philosophy regarding my recovery. The only caveat was that the only open bed was in their Atlanta facility, 1000 miles away from my home in Pennsylvania. No big deal, really.

Out of desperation, we went. An anxiety-ridden plane ride, rental cars, and hotel rooms. All reminders of how far away I was from home. Nothing has been more motivating than realizing the lengths my family would go to in order to allow me to feel like myself again. As of writing this I’m almost a month into my stay, with an expected 3-4 weeks to go. The support I have received is light years better than anything else I have experienced, and my attitude towards life is only looking up. I’ve learned that I am deserving of recovery and the wonderful life that follows as a result. I am not my eating disorder, nor was I ever. My weight is not my worth and

my body is merely a vessel for my soul. Changing my life takes uncomfortable, exhausting work day in and day out. It takes falling down and getting back up time and time again. It takes finding love in something that I have despised for months on end.

But it’s no big deal, really.

Brother Maria Rahmouni

My brother’s life is ingrained in the broken concrete on the corner of Third and West.

Watched his city turn its back as badge 347 fired copper into his chest.

But brother was just dancing to Drake, Couldn’t hear the gun cock over western L.A.

See 347 thought the celly was a gun. Didn’t bother asking questions, can’t a black boy just have fun?

And momma’s tears broke revolution out of the ground, Sparked riots and rampages all over town.

Yellin’ “Black Lives Matter” in blue faces of the law.

“Hands up, don’t shoot,” but they didn’t withdraw.

Midnight protesters behind bars just for speaking, While 347’s on paid leave for safekeeping.

Cause you got black people doing more time for the same crime, While, statistically, if you’re white the courts more on your side.

Now brother’s body was buried in October, But you’re still here, cause your story isn’t over.

Don’t silence your voice cause you’re afraid of making a scene.

Let momma’s cries be a lesson:

Sometimes to be heard, You gotta scream.